Bought by the underworld CEO

--- The sky ripped open. One second, Zoya was laughing at Ben’s ridiculous plan to propose to Julia in Paris. The next, the Airbus dropped five hundred feet. Coffee, phones, people—everything slammed into the ceiling. Screams devoured the air. “Turbulence!” someone yelled. It wasn’t. The left wing tore away. Wind roared through the cabin like a living thing. Seats buckled. Overhead bins exploded open. A flight attendant flew past Zoya, eyes wide and silent, then vanished through a crack in the fuselage. Zoya unclicked her seatbelt. It was stupid. Instinct. Her friends were twenty rows behind her. Lily, Julia, Ben, Jerry. She had to reach them. The emergency exit blew outward. It didn’t open. It _blew_. The door became a missile. Air sucked fourteen people out before sound could catch up. A man beside Zoya disappeared mid-scream. His shoe stayed behind. Zoya ran. The floor tilted ninety degrees. She grabbed a seatback for balance. A suitcase slammed into her wrist. Bone shifted. She screamed, but the wind swallowed it. The ground rushed up, green and fast. Trees. Rocks. Death. She hit branches. Pine needles whipped her face, tore her jeans, cut her arms. A thick limb caught her ribs, stopped her heart for one second, then cracked under her weight. She fell another ten feet and landed on moss. Silence. Then pain. Everywhere. Her ankle twisted at a wrong angle. Blood ran warm down her temple. The air reeked of jet fuel and pine. BOOM. The plane hit two kilometers away. The shockwave rolled over her, hot as an oven. A column of black smoke punched the sky. Burning metal rained down around her. Zoya gagged. Bodies hung in the trees. A woman swayed by her scarf, neck tilted at an unnatural angle. A child’s sneaker, caught on a branch. No sound except fire crackling, devouring everything. Zoya crawled to a tree trunk. Her ankle was purple and swollen, twice its size. She’d watched a first-aid video once. _Dislocated, not broken. Set it._ She bit her sleeve and twisted. White flashed across her vision. When she could breathe again, her foot faced forward. She would live. For now. Because through the smoke, engines rumbled. Not rescue helicopters. Jeeps. Black. No markings. Armed men jumped out. And they were smiling. They didn’t shout “we’re here to help.” They wore black uniforms and masks. Rifles hung from their shoulders. They moved like they owned the mountain. “Survivors! Come this way!” One man called. His voice was smooth. His eyes weren’t. People limped out of the trees, crying, bleeding, thanking God. A man carried his wife, both legs gone below the knee. A teen boy clutched his mother’s hand, both mother and son were badly injured. The “rescuers” lined people up. They counted them like inventory. A man with a tablet took photos of faces. He checked teeth. He tagged people with colored zip ties. Blue meant healthy. Red meant injured. Black meant broken. Zoya got red. A man with no arm received black. He begged as they dragged him toward a concrete shed. He screamed for eight minutes. Then silence. Then a man in a white coat emerged. He carried a small cooler. Blood leaked from the seam. He whistled as he walked. Zoya understood. Reds were forced into vans. No water. No doctors. Only a guard who slapped duct tape over a woman’s mouth when she asked about her children. They took us to a base. It was in a nowhere. The compound was underground. Concrete walls, steel doors, the smell of bleach and decay. Guards threw Zoya into Room 3. Forty people. Concrete floor. One bucket for a toilet. Days blurred. Blues returned with their hair cut, wearing maid uniforms, eyes empty. “Clean,” the guards ordered. They scrubbed blood from the floors. A Red with a leg wound developed infection. Fever. Begging. Guards came. They moved him to Black. Zoya learned the rules quickly. Blues were sold to private homes. Cleaners, maids, “companions.” Reds were healed, then sold. If you recovered and looked presentable, you went to auction. If not, you went Black. Blacks never returned. Ever. Zoya touched her face. Cut, bruised, but her features were still symmetrical. Nineteen years old. Blood type O-negative. Red zip tie. She was “product.” On day five, two men entered Room 3. “Master wants new stock,” one said. A guard stepped out to fetch them. The door hung open. Zoya moved. Her ankle protested, but she pushed through it. She slipped past the guard’s back, low and silent. The hallway stretched ahead, cold and empty. *Her thoughts:* _Run. Don’t think. Just run._ _If I stay, I die in pieces._ _If I run, I might die in one._ She reached a steel door. It was ajar. Through the gap, she heard voices. Low. Men. Zoya pressed herself against the wall. She listened. “—new shipment tomorrow. CEO wants the pretty ones first.” “—don’t care about pretty. I care about compliant.” Zoya’s stomach twisted. She didn’t wait. She slipped through the door. The air changed. Cooler. Cleaner. She moved through the corridor, counting turns. Left. Right. Left again. A guard’s voice echoed ahead. Zoya ducked into a storage closet. Shelves lined the walls. Blankets. Buckets. She hid behind a stack of towels. Footsteps passed. Then stopped. The door handle turned. Zoya held her breath. *Her thoughts:* _If they find me, I’m Black._ _If they don’t, I still might die._ _But at least I’ll choose how._ The door creaked open. Light spilled across the floor. Zoya waited. Guards just inside and could not see Zoya and went away. Zoya was relieved. She wait till 5 minutes then slowly walked to the door open it and looked around. No one was there . Zoya walked forward and saw a gate but she also heard a voice from behind, a guard running towards her. Zoya ran towards the gate. --- End of chapter 1